


we walk (into the fire)

by lanthanesthai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Cooking Lessons, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Polyamory, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanthanesthai/pseuds/lanthanesthai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well the first rule of being in the kitchen,” Grantaire begins, “is to<i> wash your fucking hands…”</i></p><p>(Or the one where R teaches people how to cook, and Combeferre and Enjolras attempt to seduce him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. full of brrimstone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fahrouche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fahrouche/gifts).



> there are probably a lot of errors in this. sorry, I didn't have time to edit them all out (sorry, I'll get on that)
> 
> porn will be added as a new chapter when i'm not five seconds away from collapsing (+rating will change)
> 
> happy valentines day ♥

They stand in the parking lot outside their apartment as the fire department confirm that the building is safe to re-enter. The two of them try their best to ignore the glares their neighbours are sending in their direction. (They’d found it funny the first couple of times, but after that they’d started _strongly suggesting_ that they stop trying to cook.)

Ejolras shivers slightly. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, sadly. “I was trying to surprise you.”

Combeferre takes off his coat (he didn’t even have time to get changed) and drapes it around Enjolras’ shoulders, kissing his temple. “I know you didn’t,” he says, “thank you for thinking about me.”

Enjolras cuddles into him, expression caught somewhere between misery and confusion, (in other words, he looks adorable even when he’s sad). “I just wanted to—”

“I know,” Combeferre says again cutting off his spiral of self-depreciation, “and like I said, I’m flattered.” Enjolras still looks as if he doesn’t believe him. “Really.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, wrapping his arms around ‘Ferre’s waist.

“I know you are,” he says, “but maybe we should—”

“—move apartments?” Enjolras finishes.

‘Ferre laughs. “I was going to say ‘learn how to cook’, actually. Moving seems a little drastic.”

From the way the family in 609 are still glaring daggers at the backs of their heads, Enjolras isn’t so sure. He steps a little closer and rests his head in the crook of Combeferre’s shoulder.

*

Combeferre doesn’t move from his seat after the meeting ends, and stays typing even as Enjolras wraps up the meeting. He has a stack of papers by his laptop (and no one knows where they came ‘from because they’re not working on anything major at the moment) and he has a look of intense concentration on his face.

They break off into different conversations, talking about everything form the new gym that’s opened up near the other gym (Bahorel) and the pros and cons of glitter over feather boas (also Bahorel). Eventually Enjolras comes up behind him and places a hand on his shoulder, saying gently,

“The meeting’s over, ‘Ferre. Anything else can wait until next week.”

Combeferre looks up, fingers finally stilling over the keys. “Oh, this isn’t meeting-related,” he says. “I’ve been doing some research trying to find cooking classes in the area.”

A small crease appears between Enjolras’ eyebrows. “Is that what you were doing during the meeting?” he asks. “I thought you were typing up the minutes.”

Combeferre smiles a little. “Don’t worry, I did them.” The smile widens. “I am capable of multitasking as you well know.”

Enjolras turns faintly red and someone (probably Courfeyrac) wolf-whistles. “How is the search going?” He continues after a pause, pointedly ignoring their friends.

“There are some interesting prospects,” he says, clicking into a different window and scrolling through his shortlist. “The main issues seem to be the hours, as they’re all either too late in the day or too early in the afternoon, or on days when we already have things planned…” he shrugs. “It’s not impossible to work, though. With some reshuffling we could probably—”

“Why don’t you just go to R’s class?” Bahorel asks. “He’s been using the excuse that he can’t make any meetings because they run at the same time for months.”

“It’s either that or that he’s scared of annoying us all with his crushing cynicism,” Jehan adds.

“R?” Enjolras asks, familiar with the name only in the name only in the sense that his friends occasionally bring him up. “Is he a chef?”

Jehan and Bahorel exchange a glance and ‘Ferre wonders if he should be worried. “Well,” Jehan says slowly, “he used to be, but some things went down and he had to quit.” At the worried look on Enjolras and Combeferre’s faces, he assures them, “But it’s all sorted now! He’s totally fine and he’s a really good cook.”

“Plus he lives in a really shitty apartment, so I’m sure he’ll be glad to get some new students.”

Combefrre and Enjolras look at each other again, an entire conversation in the space of a few seconds, and nod. “Alright,” Ferre says, “That sounds perfect. Is there—is there any way we can get in touch with him?”

Bahorel grins. “I’ll let him know,” he says. “He runs it over at the community centre, but I’ll get him to text you the details.”

Combeferre tangles his fingers with the ones resting lightly on his shoulder. He smiles up at his boyfriend and squeezes his hand.

*

On the Monday evening, Combeferre and Enjolras both make an effort to get home at a reasonable time. They walk down to the centre because they don’t own a car (and they have no need of one, but thank you for offering mother). The door is open and they follow the hand drawn signs covered in bad cooking puns, (walk this _weigh_ , you’ll have a _grate_ time, are you _bready_ —which have Combeferre grinning and Enjolras wanting to throw something) into the kind of kitchen set-up they’ve only ever seen on cooking shows.

Almost the moment they step through the door, they’re met by a head of dark curly hair and a wide grin. “Nice to meet you,” they say, “I’m guessing you’re Bahorel’s friends? Combeferre and the sneeze?”

‘Ferre hides a smile behind his hand as Enjolras says indignantly, “The _sneeze_? I have a _name_.”

“I know,” Grantaire says continuing to smile, “ _Enjolras_.” And it sounds so horrendously indecent that it would have made Combeferre blush if Enjolras wasn’t doing it enough for the both of them.

Grantaire is looking at him, expecting some sort of witty repartee, but all he can seem to manage is, “Oh.” This makes Grantaire smile even wider and he winks before heading to the station at the front of the room.

Enjolras and Combeferre take adjoining stations, sneaking glances at Grantaire before looking back at each other.

“Well the first rule of being in the kitchen,” Grantaire begins, “is to _wash your fucking hands…_ ”

*

Their first lesson is an unmitigated disaster, because Enjolras is so busy being distracted that he forgets to take the lasagne out of the oven, and starts a small fire. Which, of course sets the fire alarm off. They’re the only event running at that time on a Saturday so they’re the only ones who have to evacuate, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of abject embarrassment.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire assures him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It happens all the time?” Enjolras asks hopefully, and Combeferre snorts.

Grantaire laughs. “You’re the first, actually!” he says, and Enjolras notices that he sounds a little bit too thrilled about it. “But think of it this way, you’re making everyone else feel a lot better about themselves.”

Enjolras scowls and Combeferre can’t leave him like that, so he pulls him into a hug, rubbing soothing circles onto his back.

For a split second, something in Grantaire’s expression changes for the worst, but he’s back to grinning so quickly afterwards, that Combeferre is left thinking that he’s imagined it.

Enjolras and Combeferre avoid eye-contact with the firemen because they’re not that far from their apartment and they’re sure they recognise some of them. The building is deemed safe and everyone is allowed back in to reclaim their belongings.

The two of them are sure that Grantaire is going to very politely ask them not to come back. But he smiles at them and tells them he’ll see them next week. When they try to bring up payment, he talks them in circles for so long that they’re halfway home before they realise what he was doing.

They’re almost onto their street when Enjolras says, “He’s really hot.” And it sounds petulant and whiney and it’s not supposed to be because he loves Combeferre and one super-attractive boyfriend is enough, but there’s no denying that Grantaire is attractive and intelligent and he has a nice smile (and he can also cook, which is very important.)

Combeferre hums. “I noticed,” he says. “I also noticed you noticing.”

They walk in silence for a little while longer before he continues, “So, was it just a general observation, or do you want to do something about it?”

For all his forwardness in everything else, Enjolras is horrendous when it comes to his romantic life. He turns a pleasant shade of pink. “We could… ask him out?” he suggests, “if that was something you wanted to do, obviously. I wouldn’t presume to—”

Combeferre rolls his eyes and kisses him.

*

Despite all their careful planning, it really is impossible for both of them to be there together every week. They attempt to gauge his reaction to them when they’re together as opposed to when they’re there individually, but neither of them are very good at it. Short of calling in Courfeyrac, a step neither of them are prepared to take, there seems to be nothing that they can do about this.

Their second plan is to interact with him as much as possible. They noticed early on that Grantaire goes to help those who are struggling the most, so each week they do as badly as they can manage (short of setting off the fire alarm again) to try and draw his attention. Though, by all accounts, Combeferre is more emotionally aware than Enjolras, even he doesn’t notice when Grantaire begins to worry at his lip more, or when he begins to swing between looking distressed and concerned.

They’ve been attempting this for almost a month when Grantaire asks to talk to them before they leave. He plays with the hem of his apron for a while and takes a deep breath before saying,

“You don’t have to keep coming, you know.” At their confused expressions. “I mean, I’m not going to kick you out. Ever. So if you don’t want to be here, then you can just stop coming. I’m not going to get angry or anything.”

They continue to be confused for a few more moments until they realises how their behaviour must have come across: like a teenager so bored of being in class that they misbehave just to get themselves kicked out.

“We weren’t—” Enjolras begins, unsure of how to continue. “We do want to be here. We’re just not very good cooks. Honestly.”

Grantaire still looks sceptical, so Combeferre continues, “Really, we set off the fire alarm in our apartment all the time. Our neighbours hate us. It’s not you, we promise, we’re just absolutely hopeless.”

This must strike Grantaire on some level because he says, “No one is _hopeless_. You just need a bit of practice, that’s all.”

Seeing the opportunity for what it is, Combeferre ploughs ahead. “It would be great if we could come to more of your sessions, but we’re pretty busy as it is, and by the time we’re through with our other commitments, the lessons are over.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I’d run them later if I could, but there are guidelines, and I have to close up by a certain time.”

Enjolras and Combeferre look at each other. “Well,” Enjolras says, “and we don’t want to pressure you or anything, but do you do home visits?” He takes a step closer, so he’s just touching the boundaries of Grantaire’s personal space. He doesn’t back away. “It’s just, it would be really convenient, and we enjoy your company. Of course we’d be willing to pay you for your time.”

Grantaire looks a little shell shocked, but he’s nodding anyway. “I, I guess I could do that,” he agrees. “Keep your money, though. I’d feel weird taking it from you at this point.”

Enjolras and Combeferre can’t help their blinding smiles. “Are you sure?” Combeferre asks.

More confident this time, Grantaire nods again. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

*

Grantaire comes to regret those words (as he does with many things he says) exactly two weeks later. Apparently the golden couple are not so golden after all. He should have known that they couldn’t be attractive _and_ intelligent _and_ nice. In fact, they’re _terrible_.

After observing their behaviour over the past few weeks, he’s begun to wonder just how much of the way they behave is an act. Were all the casual touches and longing looks and dorky smiles (okay, yes, he’s been looking—but who wouldn’t be?) part of some elaborate play, or did they actually care about each other.

The first of the ‘home-sessions’ had been with Enjolras, who was, in fact, as horrible a cook as he proclaimed to be, which made Grantaire feel both better and worse. They had argues for the best part of ninety minutes about everything from social reform to the best Avenger (Grantaire was willing to forgive him for choosing Bruce Banner even though he was _so, so wrong_ ).

The actual cooking had been fine (barely, though he was getting better) and the conversation was the most interesting he’d had in a long time. By the end, his squish had turned into a full-blown crush. Afterwards, when he’d been about to leave, Enjolras had taken him by the hand and asked if he was free the coming Friday.

“Did you want another session?” he had asked, confusion drawing his eyebrows together.

Enjolras had frowned in return and had shaken his head. “I wanted to know if you were free for a date.”

“What about Combeferre?” Grantaire had asked, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, which worsened when Enjolras only laughed.

“Don’t worry about him,” Enjolras said, “how do you feel about seafood?”

He didn’t remember much of what was said after that, but he was out of the door and down into the lobby before he realised he was shaking. Combeferre was so _nice_ and the thought of Enjolras treating him like an afterthought made Grantaire feel physically ill.

At the next lesson, they had both been there, but unlike the mixture of warmness and envy that he usually felt when he looked at the two of them together, he just felt a little disgusted. He knew that he would have to tell Combeferre but didn’t know how to go about separating the two of them.

He got his chance a few days later, when it was Combeferre he was teaching in their apartment. He meant to say it immediately, but they started in on the same lines of conversation as he had had with Enjolras the week before. While the two of them had almost identical opinions, Combeferre was a much more levelheaded conversationalist that Enjolras (and he had better taste in superheroes as well). He liked Combeferre. A lot. Which was why he hated what he had to do next.

It was after, once again when he was just about to leave, that he worked up the courage to say, heart pounding in his ears, “Your boyfriend asked me out of a date.”

Combeferre just blinked and said, “Oh, I know.”

“You _know_ ,” Grantaire had echoed. “What do you mean ‘you _know_ ’?”

Combeferre had smiled. “Well, I knew he was going to ask,” he had said, “I wanted to ask as well, but he happened to be free that Wednesday, so he got there first.”

Grantaire had looked at him in shock for a few moments before backing out of the door. “Oh my _God,_ ” he’d said, “what the fuck is _wrong_ with the two of you?”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre’d begun, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Grantaire flinched back.

“Don’t,” he’d said. “Just—don’t. Just, leave me out of whatever messed up power play you two have going on—I know I’m not a catch or anything, but I don’t deserve this.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre had repeated, but Grantaire had just continued to step away, shaking his head.

“No. I’m done, just—” he’d broken off. “I’d appreciate it if the two of you were to stop coming to my classes,” he’d said.

Now,  sitting at home in bed alone, he feels having a drink (to be fair, he always does), so he does what he always does when he gets like this (because he’s not relapsing for those assholes), and calls Jehan.

*

Enjolras and Combeferre were disappointed by Grantaire’s rejection, of course, but they didn’t let it get in the way of their relationship. They were having a hard time finding other cooking classes, though, and Grantaire’s really had just been so convenient. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t understand where he was coming from, though. They would never have tried to pressure him into anything, but it would have still been a little awkward for them to keep going (though they would have liked to have stayed friends at least, they really did enjoy his company).

They were sat in the back booth on the top floor of the Musain (Enjolras typing up some corrections he’d made to an essay, and Combeferre attempting to hunt down an obscure piece of education law) when Jehan stormed in, furious and accusatory asking, “What did you _do_?”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchange glances, as lost as one another.

“What did we do?” Combeferre eventually echoes, looking for clarification.

“To Grantaire,” Jehan says, “he’s _really_ upset and he won’t explain why, except to say that it had something to do with you two. So I repeat: what did you _do_?”

“We—” Enjolras falters, looking to Combeferre for support. “We just asked him out on a date. We didn’t think that he would be _that_ opposed to it.”

Combeferre nods. “And we tried not to overwhelm him by _both_ of us being there, so we asked him one at a time and—”

“Wait,” Jehan says, finally deflating a little. “Did you make sure he knew that it was _both of you asking_ , not one of you trying to cheat on the other.”

Combeferre and Enjolras look at each other. “Yes,” they say simultaneously, then after a pause, Combeferre says, “well, maybe not.” And Jehan sighs like he’s given up of both of them before settling into the next booth over.

He fixes them both with a hard stare. “Fix it,” he says, “I don’t like seeing my friends sad. Any of them.”

*

They formulate a new plan of action, and this one they run by both Jehan and Courfeyrac so that, if nothing else, it’s unlikely to cause any _more_ misunderstandings, and they put it into action the next week.

They wait outside the community centre until Grantaire has finished locking up. When he catches sight of them, he freezes then seems to sort of steel himself. He doesn’t move towards them, and so they move towards him, hanging on the fringes of his social space, more than an arm’s length away.

“We’d like to talk to you,” Combeferre says. “If you tell us to go away, we will, but we’d like to apologise and also to explain. I think we owe you that much.”

Grantaire looks so reluctant that they’re almost sure he’s going to say no, but he closes his eyes and swears under his breath and gives a tight nod, which isn’t the enthusiasm they would have liked, but is more than they expected (plus at this point, they’re willing to take whatever they get).

“Would you mind if we went back to our apartment?” Enjolras asks. “We can go somewhere else if you won’t feel comfortable there, but this is a little—” he indicates the parking lot with a sleep of his hands.

Grantaire nods again, and they make the journey back to their flat in absolute silence. Once they’re inside, Enjolras and Grantaire sit down, on opposite sides while Combeferre starts making coffee. Once Combeferre has fulfilled his need to be a good host, he sits down as well.

“First of all,” Enjolras begins, “we’re really sorry. We never meant to upset you or make you uncomfortable. At all. We wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, but it’s not very convincing.

“No it isn’t, R,” Combeferre says. “We put you in a really unpleasant position, and we need to apologise for that.” He pauses for so long that Grantaire looks up from the spot on the table he was examining. “Also,” he continues, “we want to clear up a misunderstanding.”

“Right,” Enjolras says, and sets his mug down. “When I asked if you’d be interested in going on a date, I didn’t mean on a date with _me_.” He glances at Combeferre who gives him a small smile. “I love ‘Ferre,” he says, “he’s my best friend and out of respect, if nothing else, I’d never cheat on him.” He takes a deep breath. “I was asking if you would be interested in going on a date with _us_ ,” he clarifies. “ _Both_ of us.”

There is silence apart from the sound of the clock ticking above the kitchen sink. “Sorry, what?” Grantaire asks.

“We’d like to date you, Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “We both really like you and we think you’re interesting and we’re attracted to you, and all those other things that make people ask other people out on dates.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre and Enjolras watch as he steadily turns deeper and darker shades of red, attempting to hide his expression as he takes another sip. “ _Oh_.”

“We’d also like to have a lot of sex with you, if you’d like,” Enjolras adds helpfully.

Grantaire chokes, spluttering for a few seconds.

Combeferre tries not to laugh and succeeds only in the sense that he doesn’t actually make any noise.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Grantaire agrees.


	2. i need (you darling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sexy times. late sexy times but sexy times nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the lovely watertrees bc it might have taken another month to write this if it hadn't been for your existence (also it's totally unedited because it's 00:03 and technically not saturday anymore, whoops, so it's yours if you want it)
> 
> anyway, thank you for all your patience losers  
> catch me at aelastor.tumblr.com
> 
> also i write a lot of smut for a sex-repulsed asexual  
> sex is weird

When they go on their first date, Grantaire isn’t even aware that it’s a date until they’re asking—haltingly—if he would like to come back to theirs for coffee. At first, it doesn’t register and he starts asking them if they make a habit out of consuming caffeine at this time of night; then it does. Enjolras looks mildly offended by the sheer amount of _laughing_ he does, because they cannot be this ridiculous. (Except they are and it’s perfect.)

“I must be dating the two biggest dorks on the planet,” he says, “I don’t want to go to your house for coffee.”

And Enjolras looks crestfallen and Grantaire wants to kiss that expression off his stupid cute face, but before he can continue, Combeferre, ever the responsible one, interjects.

“That’s okay,” he begins, “we know it’s a little soon, and we don’t want to pressure you into anything you aren’t ready for.” He pauses, and it might be the streetlights but Grantaire thinks that he’s blushing, just a little bit. “We just wanted to let you know that the offer’s there if you want it.”

Grantaire stops himself from rolling his eyes and steps towards them instead. “I said I don’t want _coffee_ ,” he corrects. “If, on the other hand, by ‘coffee’ you meant ‘lots of fucking’, then I’m most definitely on board.”

Combeferre makes an ‘ _oh_ ’ sound and Enjolras chokes a little bit and he can’t help but marvel at the fact that the two of them ever managed to sleep together when they blush if Grantaire so much as says the word ‘cock’. Enjolras is so easily flustered that it’s almost painfully endearing, and while ‘Ferre likes to pretend that he’s unaffected, Grantaire has gotten a lot better at reading him and he can now tell when he _is_.

The two of them glance at each other, then back at Grantaire and it’s Enjolras who nods. (Sometimes Grantaire envies the rapport the two have with one another, how _easy_ everything is between them—but it’s hard to be jealous when he remembers that _he’s_ the one that they chose to share it with.)

“We’d—uh. We’d like that.” He says, and they smile, small and charming and Grantaire thinks it lights up the street a little.

 

\--

 

The walk back to their apartment is leisurely, but sandwiched between the two of them, holding both their hands, he can feel nerves setting in a little. It’s weird that _this_ is what he’s panicking about. Sex, like cooking, is something that he knows he’s good at. Everything else, he’s never done before—especially not with _two_ people—so he can, at the very least, rationalise his anxiety over the less physical parts of their relationship.

Combeferre must sense that something’s wrong, (that or Grantaire’s palms are getting clammy, and isn’t _that_ an embarrassing thought) because he leans down to press a kiss to Grantaire’s temple, smiling at him while Enjolras continues talking, completely oblivious. It is, as Éponine would put it—fucking disgusting. (It’s so sweet it hurts.)

When the door closes behind them, though, the mood shifts completely and Grantaire doesn’t have time to be nervous because Combeferre has one hand cupping his cheek while he kisses him in a way best described as _insistent_.

Grantaire’s not sure of why he thought Combeferre would be an inexperienced kisser, (he’s not sure of anything right now) but his lips are warm and dry and R just feels so— _overwhelmed_ that all he can do is respond and groan and rock his hips towards ‘Ferre’s, increasingly desperate for contact. Distantly, he hears Enjolras make a pained noise, but it’s hard to focus with ‘Ferre’s lips guiding his and ‘Ferre’s tongue toying with his.

Eventually, Combeferre pulls back to breathe, angling him a little. It’s seconds before Enjolras’ lips are on his and where Combeferre was gentle and coaxing, Enjolras is fiery and heated and the difference leaves him feeling a little bit light-headed. Enjolras is so warm that Grantaire feels like he’s going to catch fire at any moment, but with Combeferre’s hands on his hips and Enjolras’ tongue doing hot, wet things in his mouth, he thinks it would be totally worth it.

Combeferre starts unzipping Grantaire’s jacket and if his cognitive functions were more readily available he’d be making jokes about him being the perfect host, but all he can do is sigh into Enjolras’ mouth and grind helplessly against his thigh. It occurs to him that he should do something to help, but with his hands clutching at the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt, he’s not sure he’s capable. Plus if he _could_ have helped he’d have missed out on Combeferre’s hands on him, moving his limbs into position (and being manhandled is something that Grantaire will admit to enjoying) until his jacket slips off and falls to the ground.

Enjolras nips at his lip at the same time Combeferre presses his mouth to Grantaire’s neck and _bites_ and his brain short-circuits and his knees give way and he’s convinced that _this is how he’s going to die_ and _oh, will it be glorious_. He whines, high pitched and needy and he doesn’t need to look at either of them to know that they have the most self-satisfied looks on their faces (and he’ll try and be annoyed by that later).

He thinks that maybe they’ll head to the bedroom now but instead Enjolras’ mouth joins Combeferre’s on his neck while ‘Ferre whispers, “Is this okay?” breathy and warm into his ear. Grantaire has no idea what he’s asking but he nods desperately anyway, panting so heavily and moaning so brokenly that he probably won’t respect himself very much in the morning.

Then Combeferre’s hand slides down to the front of R’s jeans as he whispers something into Enjolras’ ear and Grantaire can’t help but thinks that that isn’t _fair_ they should be banned from conspiring against him, unless, of course, the conspiring leads to more sex—though he wonders if it’s greedy to be thinking about another sex when this sex hasn’t even finished yet—and he probably can’t use sex as a countable noun, maybe it should be _sexual endeavour_ instead and— _oh fuck_ —

—because Enjolras has somehow managed to free his dick without Grantaire noticing (not that in his cognitively impaired state that would be a difficult thing to do) and Combeferre has Grantaire’s dick in his hand, (which while slightly more difficult, is still completely possible apparently) and is stroking it so torturously slowly that Grantaire thinks he’s going to cry and ‘Ferre makes it so much worse when he presses a soft kiss to the nape of his neck that makes Grantaire sob a little because there has to be some sort of _rule_ about boyfriends being this nice during sex.

Enjolras moves closer until their cocks brush together and Combeferre wraps his hand around them both and _strokes_ and the way that Enjolras moans into his ear is so viciously sinful that the only reason that Grantaire is still standing is because Combeferre is taking all his weight. The fact that Combeferre is both strong enough to carry him and has large enough hands to hold both him and Enjolras sends his brain into overdrive and he doesn’t realise he’s hyperventilating until Enjolras whispers, “Shh, shh,” calmingly into his ear. “It’s okay,” he says, “we’ve got you.”

And somehow they do and it’s the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s somehow still going to shake apart, he can’t _take_ this, it’s too much. It’s driving him crazy: the slow drag of Enjolras’ dick against his, the slide of Combeferre’s hand as he touches the both of them; the kisses Enjolras presses to the hollow of his throat, his collarbone as he shakes apart himself; the dirty, sweet _perfection of it all_.

It can’t last. _He_ can’t last. He’s already so, so close and all it takes is Enjolras biting at his neck, telling him to let go and he can feel himself falling. Combeferre says, “Come for us,” and he jerks, moaning long and low and _shattered_ as he comes into ‘Ferre’s hand, so intense as to be almost painful and the aftershocks leave him shivering.

He must have closed his eyes a while ago, when, he’s not sure of but then ‘Ferre says, “Open your eyes, watch him,” and he has no choice but to obey, eyes blinking open in the dark of the hallway, just in time to watch Enjolras, eyes shut, shudder his way to orgasm, mouth open and groaning, pleasure written into every line of his face. He feels Enjolras’ come join his own on Combeferre’s hand and he’s _still_ stroking, so sensitive but so good, so _wet_ , that he doesn’t know whether he wants to push his hand away on fuck into it.

All of Enjolras’ frantic energy seems to dissipate and he collapses into them, hard enough to knock ‘Ferre backwards a little bit.

He’s unsure as to how, but ‘Ferre somehow manages to guide the two of them into the bedroom, helping them undress (and putting their clothes in the washing machine as they’ll find out in the morning) and cleaning them up with some warm water and a damp cloth. It’s so lovely that Grantaire thinks that he might be developing a Combeferre’s-Hands kink. They’re so large and warm and strong that (aside from his eyes and his smile and well, everything) they might be becoming his favourite thing about him.

Enjolras is practically asleep, humming contentedly, by the time Combeferre finally climbs into bed between them, almost completely undressed himself.

“You didn’t get to come,” Grantaire says, somewhat belatedly, fighting against the lethargy that followed a satisfying orgasm.

Combeferre laughs and pulls Grantaire towards him as he cuddles into Enjolras. “It’s fine,” he says, “I enjoyed it. Go to sleep, Grantaire.”

Enjolras, who they had both thought was asleep rolled over to bite at Combeferre’s shoulder, making him huff a little. “He likes handjobs,” he says, reaching for ‘Ferre’s cock with his own hand. “A lot.”

Grantaire hums in consideration. “Well, I like giving them a lot, so I guess that works out pretty well for both of us.”

Combeferre starts to say something else, but it’s interrupted by a helpless groan as Grantaire’s hand joins Enjolras. They stroke in opposite directions, Grantaire reaching down to play with his sack while Enjolras teased at his slit. It didn’t take long for them to draw him into full hardness, and not long after that, he was gasping and moaning, rocking into their combined fists.

For reasons that neither of them can really name, they keep him on the edge for a long time, pulling back and slowing down every time it _sounds_ like he’s about to come. They don’t let him until he’s gasping both their names, one after the other, begging for them to _please, just please_ let him come.

When he does, Enjolras kisses him, sloppy and open-mouthed, swallowing every whine and cry. Despite the fact that he’s far too tired for another round, Grantaire feels his ditch twitch in interest anyway.

Luckily, the cloth isn’t too far away and no one has to get out of bed before Combeferre is all clean, sinking sleepily into the mattress. “Thank you,” he says, and Grantaire wants to laugh a little bit because that’s _his_ line here.

They cuddle into each other, warm and sated under the covers, half-asleep and content. “You’re welcome,” Enjolras mumbles, mouth pressed against Combeferre’s chest. It’s the last thing any of them say until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'fire' by kids in glass houses  
> if you notice any mistakes, please let me know  
> thank you for reading


End file.
